The years grind grimly on ahead,
Each one more unforgiving,
Until the claims of all your dead
Outweigh those of the living.
You make your way each deadly day
Advancing towards your last,
Until your waxing woes betray
You to the hungry Past.
When dreams that gleam of what’s in store
Grow dim with ash and dust,
Mere failed hopes they sadly seem
And fade, as all things must.
There is no reasoned hope at all;
No shining star to find.
Grim Winter glooms after the Fall.
The best view lies behind.
You choose and draw another one:
One less left fatal breath,
Unsure which is the final one
Before the cup of death.
You know it’s nearer when you feel
A nerve or muscle fail--
The one view that grows clearer
As you reach that shadowed veil.
You are a wood chip in the wind.
We all are, it is true.
Life, time and tide are going on
And will, when you are through.
To grieve at what you must believe
Is folly, prompting sadness.
To weep at one’s mortality
Is nothing else than madness.